Now or Never Now
by runicmagitek
Summary: Ailecoeur didn't sign up for a lot of things before heading to Fort Joy, though at least she doesn't have to carry the burden alone. Or five times Ifan saved the Godwoken from an injury and one time she saved him. Mid-canon Ifan/f!Godwoken


_for Sumi for the multifandom drabble exchange on AO3_

* * *

The ride to Fort Joy was short of pleasant, let alone that blasted collar. The hull groaned and swayed as Ailecoeur wandered the interior in hopes to dull her boredom. The ship jerked and she hissed with a stumble. Thankfully, she didn't crash into the ground. Then again, it was less of a what broke her fall and more of a _who_.

A mean face twisted before Ailecoeur. A man—of course it was—managed to tower over her elven physique, his bicep thicker than her waist.

"Oi!" he barked, spittle flying everywhere. "The hell is the big idea?!"

Ailecoeur opened her palms and inched away. "Whoa, no need to get upset," she rushed out. "Just… lost my footing and didn't see where I was—"

"What, never been on a bloody ship before?" This slab of walking muscle pursued her. "Think you can waltz into whoever you feel like? This isn't a city, _elf_!"

She rolled her eyes and scoffed. "So much for being civil."

"I don't _need_ to be—"

"_Hey_."

A quick, yet smooth voice froze Ailecoeur. Someone dared to grip this idiot's shoulder and halt his movements. She caught a glimpse of the human daring to step in.

His green eyes focused on the bully. "Leave her alone." He growled those words, but there was something soothing about his timbre. "No need to—"

The other man whipped a fist into the smaller one, who wheezed and hunched over.

"Don't lecture me, ben-Mezd," he said, spat on the floor, and walked away.

Ailecoeur folded her arms. "I'm _really_ not worth getting the wind knocked out of."

Catching his breath, he stood. A hint of a smirk flashed against his grizzly features. "Not up to you to decide."

Before she could question if he was alright, he already slipped away.

* * *

"Fancy meeting _you_ here."

Ailecoeur evaded the sword wishing to eviscerate her. A crossbow bolt whizzed by her cheek. She wove around her now lifeless assailant, heaved out a sigh, and peeked back.

Fort Joy was no paradise. That much she knew. She palmed what blades she came across and kept her head down for the most part—then that idiot Griff wished to treat her like a slave, simply because no one else challenged his word. Not until Ailecoeur, of course. But she expected amateur thugs to believe they could manipulate a seemingly docile woman.

She did _not_, however, expect help in the form of the man who aided her on the Merryweather.

He perched on a stack of crates. The sun caught in her eyes, but she swore he smiled from above.

"I'm starting to think you're stalking me," she quipped back.

He chuckled. "Fair assessment. Wouldn't fault you for sound logic."

A figure moved behind him, shifting from the shadow into the light. Ailecoeur caught the silhouette as the knife glinted in the sun. Her expression must've alert him, for he pivoted in time for the knife slice his shirt.

He stumbled from his perch and Ailecoeur rushed to meet him. Blood lined his chest in an arch. She bent to assess the damage—a surface cut at worst, always seeming more fatal than it was.

"You alright?" she asked, flicking her attention between him and their stealthy pursuer.

He laughed again. "Never been better. You?"

She raised an eyebrow. "I'll let you know if we survive this."

"_When_, you mean."

"At least one of us is optimistic." She offered a hand. "Hey, you got a name or should I start calling you my shadow?"

His green eyes locked with hers—warm, yet calculating. "Name's Ifan ben-Mezd."

* * *

"You know, we need to stop making a habit of this."

Despite the bruises swelling and the blood drying on his face, Ifan had yet to cease smiling. "Part of being a Sourcerer, right? Not exactly a quiet, peaceful life."

Ailecoeur tsked and resumed patching his face with fresh bandages and magical ice. "Doesn't mean we should get ourselves into more trouble than we're already in."

"Says the one who lunged head first into Bishop Alexander."

"Because _someone_ had to." She squinted. "I'm not the one with the crossbow. Up close and personal is more my thing."

"And yet you're lecturing _me_ about trouble?"

"If you weren't bleeding all over my lap, I'd smack you."

"Shouldn't do that to someone with a concussion."

"Ha. _Ha_. Your face looks worse than your damn back. Can't fool me." She wiped away the blood from his brow and paused. "Yet you continue to be a fool."

He didn't answer. The silence almost choked her.

"Why are you doing this, Ifan?"

"Doing what?"

Ailecoeur smacked her face. "You're not built for the front lines! So why do you keep putting yourself at risk to save _my_ skin when I know fully well what I freaking signed up for?"

His eyes found hers and Ailecoeur forgot to breathe. She was _upset_ with him, damn it, and yet her heart skipped and her throat dried and her thoughts blurred.

_I'm not worth saving,_ she wanted to tell him.

"We're in this together, aren't we?" Ifan said, licking his cracked lips, the words raspy, yet gentle. "We keep each other alive. That's what partners do."

Ailecoeur stifled her amusement. "Partners? _That's_ what we are?"

"Got a better word for two sorry sacks roped into some Godwoken nonsense?"

Laughter erupted and thrummed through the Lady Vengeance.

* * *

"Still awake?"

Ifan peeked back, sitting at the edge of the camp. The meager fire smoldered, embers floating up in hopes to reach the stars. All else submitted to darkness. Ailecoeur approached with caution; after the violent display that unfolded at the sawmill, Ifan distanced himself.

"Doubt sleep will be easy for a while," he murmured.

"Lucky for _you_ that it's ever been easy," she teased. Ifan chuckled and so did she. "Do you… is it okay if I—"

He patted the empty space next to him. Ailecoeur plopped down.

"How's your hand?" she asked.

He flexed said hand, blood seeping through a thick wad of gauze. A deep wound carved into his palm beneath it. She knew— she witness him gripping Roost's blade when clutching his wrist wasn't enough.

If he hadn't, maybe she wouldn't have survived, wouldn't be sitting next to him.

"Nothing that won't heal," Ifan said.

She nodded, then sighed. "You could've done something _else_ to stop Roost. Punch his ribs, chop off his arm, I don't know. Anything but—"

"I didn't think."

Ailecoeur blinked. "What do you mean?"

"Gut reaction. That's all. Logic came in after the fact."

"I'm sorry."

He met her gaze. "For what?"

"I was being careless and put you in—"

"Aily."

That bandaged hand found a home on her thigh. Many idiots attempted that and walked away with more than a missing hand. But Ifan touched her and she found no reason to flinch or scream or do anything.

Furthermore, when did he start calling her _that_?

"I wanted you safe," he whispered. "And you are, so that's all that matters."

Even up close, she couldn't discern if humor or annoyance riddled his face. She banished her doubts and placed her hands over his.

"Thank you," she murmured and meant it.

* * *

For someplace called The Nameless Isle, Ailecoeur managed to invent at least fifty backhanded titles for the forsaken place. Fort Joy was a haven in comparison; at least she didn't have to meddle with gods and destiny and the like.

But at least right then, on That Bullocks Be Damned Rock, she wasn't alone.

In between fights and desperate attempts to defy fate, Ailecoeur glanced to Ifan. She lost track of the times he rushed in to accept a blow meant for her. He limped behind their scouting party, though smiled when their eyes met. Some vile creature chewed up his leg in exchange for saving her when she was knocked prone.

"_You run around more than I do,_" he had insisted after the battle. "_Best makes use of those pretty legs while I sit back and take pot shots._"

Ailecoeur hitched her breath; did he _actually_ call her legs pretty or did she make it up while recalling the memory?

"Hey," she said, lagging behind to join him. "Doing alright?"

His stone cold face brightened. "Better now."

"Figured if you keep making a habit out of injuring yourself, might as well keep you company."

Ifan raised both brows. "Is _that_ all it takes to get your attention? Here I was worried you liked flowers and dresses."

"Really now?" she said through giggles. "You still take me as some simple girl?"

"Hardly. Just glad I can toss out the weeds I've been toting around."

"Please tell me you're joking."

"Wasn't my idea. Then again, Lohse's _advice_ is unsolicited at best."

"So is Fane's commentary about us whenever we're in a ten-foot radius of each other."

Ifan roared with laughter, garnering the glares from both their companions ahead. "Well then," he purred, "let's give them something to talk about, shall we?"

* * *

Ailecoeur crashed into the wall, blaming the Lady Vengeance's wayward movements instead of her sore, bloodied limbs. She made it to a spare bedroom and caught the edge of the mattress before collapsing.

She didn't notice the footsteps behind her or the arms enveloping her.

"Aily."

"Let me bleed out, Ifan," she grumbled.

"You're hurt."

"Yeah, no shit."

"It'll hurt more come morning if you ignore it."

"Speaking from experience?"

He paused, shallow breaths beating against her neck. "Let me help."

Even if she wanted to break free, her strength faded after that last encounter. Ailecoeur hung her head. She _knew_ better, but when Source rendered Ifan immobile, she blocked the path between him and certain death.

Her elven armor dropped to the floor and tunic loosened, slipping off one shoulder. She hissed as Ifan cleaned the burns and gouges littering her back.

"Is this okay?" he murmured, halfway done.

"I'm alive," she sighed out. "It's as okay as I'll ever be."

"That's not what I meant."

Before she could ask, Ifan's lips sank into her bare shoulder. His beard tickled her as he kissed up her neck. Ailecoeur forgot to breathe when he ghosted her ear lobe.

"Is _this_ okay, Aily?"

Swallowing hard, she turned into Ifan—slowly, gently—and eased into his lips.

She once imagined grandiose scenarios for them to play out in ideal circumstances. None included her battle-worn body begging for rest while frayed nerves screamed for his attention on a ship heading to their supposed demise. But it was still a moment and Ailecoeur longed to cherish it.

For now, she wasn't a Godwoken; she was his Aily.

When they emerged for air, Ifan smirked into her. "I'll take that as a yes."

He managed to nudge the door close before dipping in for more.


End file.
